


The Times are Tidy

by gayshitiguess



Series: From the Bell Jar [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Blessed Yule fuckers, Caleb branded self esteem problems, Disrespect of sex workers, F/F, From the Bell Jar, Homophobia, M/M, Thanks, Transphobia, Yashas wife got me fucked, beaus parents are the worst, caleb branded depression, christmas episode!, dead wife, don’t read, if any of that bothers you, pls be safe, yall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 16:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17165510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayshitiguess/pseuds/gayshitiguess
Summary: Christmas isn’t always easy. A few snapshots of the rough Christmas’s of the Mighty Nien before they become the Mighty Nien.Set the Christmas before the events of Beware, Beware.





	The Times are Tidy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Ya’ll! Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Bitchin’ Yule to you and yours!! I hope you all had a wonderful day and enjoy this piece. This helped me avoid my family for the evening, so thanks! Just a quick note, this isn’t beta read since I wrote this like twenty minutes ago and I don’t want to bother my lovely beta on Christmas! So, any mistakes are totally my own. Thank you so much for reading! You can find me at gayshitiguess! Come by and drop me a line. Seriously, I love asks!! Thanks!! Enjoy!

Beauregard’s parents, in Molly’s humble opinion, were the absolute fucking worst. He felt bad about it, sometimes, but Beau’s affirmations were reassuring. She felt much the same way. The fact that they had somehow convinced themselves that Molly was her boyfriend the first time they had barged their way into Jester’s apartment demanding to see their daughter was proof enough. If they couldn’t see how very gay that Beau was and how unattracted Molly was to her, then they were truly, truly blind. After their unplanned visit, Molly had spent three days harping on their heteronormative mindset, because of course, the only masculine-presenting person in their household was obviously courting their very, very gay daughter. Beauregard wasn’t much happier about it than he was. 

 

Beau referred to her parents only as the Lionettes, and though the name was hers as well, when she said it, she was not including herself. Beau’s mother wasn’t the kind of woman that she easily talked to. She was quiet, easily contented, passive in every way. Beauregard was perhaps the polar opposite. Where her mother would be silent, she would scream, where her mother would submit, Beauregard would rebel. It left a dissidence between them, a rift that couldn’t be mended. While she simply couldn’t reach her mother, Beau regarded her father with a silent kind of disdain. From what Molly knew, he had never hit her, never abused her, never done anything that he knew that fathers sometimes did. He did, however, instill internal homophobia, emotionally manipulate, and try and force her into a certain box. From what Beau had told Molly, which wasn’t that much, he had wanted a son, and when she came along, he decided that he would punish her for being her. It hadn’t helped that he was a rich conservative who believed in military school for rowdy children. When she started rebelling against him, that’s where he sent her. 

 

The Lionettes began making regular check ins with the residences of apartments 101 and 102. Their favorite time of year to show up announced was Christmas. It was Christmas Eve, this time. And, unfortunately, Molly had found himself in a crop top that read “Ho,” and Beauregard a sweatshirt that read “ON MY SLEIGH TO STEAL YOUR GIRL” (a gift from himself). They were not very happy about the whole situation. 

 

Beau had been in her room having a screaming match with them for the past half hour and, refusing to leave her alone in the apartment with them, Molly, Yasha, and Jester had their ears pressed against the door. An invasion of privacy, perhaps, but one that they felt absolutely necessary. 

 

Beau was doing very well, Molly thought. She was holding her own, snapping back at every piece of bullshit that they threw her way. 

 

“It’s these  _ people  _ that you’re staying with, isn’t it?” Her father screamed. Molly could picture his beat-red face. He looked remarkably like what Molly would imagine the dullest man on Earth to be. “That young man is not suited for you! What kind of man is named ‘Molly?’ The hair, the tattoos! It doesn’t surprise me, the way he acts! In our house, we taught you that men act like men and women act like women.” Molly’s stomach turned over in his gut. 

 

“And the girl? The foreigner?” Her mother chimed in. Jester gripped Molly’s wrist. “I looked her up. She’s a  _ prostitute!”  _

 

_ “ _ The big one is obviously a man trying to be a woman-“

 

“Enough.” Beau cut in. Molly held his breath. “If you can’t handle the way that I live and the person that I am, then you should get out. You should lose my address, you should delete my number, you should forget about me.” 

 

“Young lady, I will stop feeding your bank account!” Her father threatened. “I’ll cut you off entirely.” 

 

“Do it!” Beau screamed. “Fucking do it! I don’t care. Get out of my apartment! Get the fuck out!” Yasha pulled he and Jester away from the door as Beau came storming out, her father’s collar in her hand. He stumbled behind her outraged by the very idea of the situation. 

 

She practically threw him out of the door, her mother rushing after him to get his collar straight again. When he took a step towards her, Yasha met his distance, a hand on Beau’s shoulder. She seemed to fill the entire room up just then. Beau’s father backed down. He was ignorant and backwards, but he was smart enough to know when he was beat. 

 

“You heard her,” Yasha said, voice so calm it sent shivers up Molly’s spine, “get  _ out.”  _

 

As soon as the door was shut, Beau crumbled, sobbing into Yasha. Jester rushed forward and took Beau up in her arms. 

 

“It’s okay,” she whispered, “It’ll be okay, Beau.” 

 

It was all that they could do the four of them, to hold on to each other, to gather each other up in their arms. 

 

__

 

Zuella had no grave at home, nobody in the ground, but she had a headstone in the small graveyard across town from the apartment. It was a quiet place and nobody stopped her when she visited in the dead of the night. Nobody knew about Zuella. Not even Molly, and Molly knew almost everything about her. Yasha still had her ring, still had the simple, silver band that she had worn after they’d been married. 

 

There were no flowers, back at home. Nothing grew there. There were flowers everywhere she went, now. She collected them, pressed them in the little field journal that Molly had given her, grew them in her room. She had them in her hand now, all bundled together with twine, a large, fresh poinsettia plant tucked under her arm. Her boots hit the soggy, well fertilized ground with satisfying give. 

 

The headstone was simple, tucked into the back of the cemetery. A large black stone with “Beloved Wife,” carved beneath her name. 

 

“I brought you flowers.” She said. Her voice sounded broken when it came from her. “I think you’ll like the red ones.” Yasha placed the poinsettias down carefully and undid the twine holding the dried flowers. “This is a four leaf clover.” She said. “My friend Molly gave it to me. You wouldn’t like Molly, he’s very loud. I think he would annoy you.” She dug her fingers into the earth and placed the clover into the dirt, covering it up. “He said it was for luck. I don’t know if I believe in luck, but maybe it’ll help you. This is a daisy. Jester made me a crown of them. She’s loud too, but I think that you’d like her. She’s nicer than Molly.” She dug a hole for the daisy next to the clover. “This one’s a forget-me-not. Beau gave it to me.” She studied the flower, wondered if she should keep it for herself. “Beau, you would like. She’s mean.” Yasha smiled despite herself. 

 

She thought about Beau, sleeping on Jester’s bed with Molly wrapped around her because she couldn’t bare to be alone tonight. She thought about the way that she cried, ugly and loud, bare and vulnerable for the first time since Yasha had known her. She thought about the love that Beau was not allowed and she thought about how they had that in common. 

 

“If I like someone,” Yasha said, “would you be mad at me?” It felt foolish as soon as it came out of her mouth. Of course Zuella wouldn’t be mad at her. She never had been. “I won’t marry her, not right now, I don’t even think I could date her, but...” Yasha trailed off, “do I lose a part of you if my heart heals? Do I lose you if I stop feeling it so much?” She could feel the tears hot behind her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you, but I feel it  _ so much.”  _ They began to fall, her voice grew tight and high, “all the time. All the time, and I can barely breathe. Is it selfish to want that to stop?” She rested her forehead against the cool stone. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

 

It was all that she could do to hold on to the stone, to wrap her arms around it and keep from digging up the earth and sleeping underneath it. 

 

__

 

Caleb hadn’t celebrated Christmas since before he’d met Nott. Before the asylum. Not properly anyway. They would have puny little celebrations, a paper tree with no ornaments incase someone broke them and used the shards to harm themselves. Caleb had received no presents, hadn’t even really been aware of himself or the world around him enough to celebrate. 

 

Los Angeles was not the city for it. It was very big, very noisy, not a welcome place for someone so well versed in solitude and silence. Nila had joined him for an evening mass despite being very far from Catholic. Her presence was a warmth to him, a comfort that he often felt guilty for indulging. He was manipulating her, he was sure, using her for affection and counsel. Her husband and son were at home while she eased him through holliday pains. He had said goodnight to her early with that guilt heavy on his heart. 

 

Gilmore had called on his way home, merrily toasting to his good health and bragged about how strong his mulled wine recipe was. 

 

“May your New Year’s wishes come true, darling.” Gilmore had said. “Gods know you deserve it.” 

 

Modern Literature was quiet and dark when he came upon the store front. Nott must have closed down for the night. He wasn’t entirely sure where Fjord got off to on Christmas, but he always disappeared for a few days before and after. He had learned not to ask. Fjord was his own person and Caleb had no wish to try and wrangle him. He was much too strong-willed and Caleb much too jaded to do so. He unlocked the door and let himself in. 

 

He did not expect to see Nott, Fjord, and Caduceus sitting in the back, perched on various desks, sipping from large, streaming mugs. 

 

Caleb and Caduceus had broken of their two year relationship a few weeks ago, and, as things stood, not much had changed. Sex was infrequent between them and they rarely spent the night with each other, so their fond, friendly status hadn’t skipped a beat. He smiled warmly when Caleb came in, put down his mug, and wrapped Caleb tightly in his arms. 

 

“Hey, Caleb,” he said, his chest vibrating with his deep voice, “Blessed Yule.” He kissed the top of Caleb’s head. 

 

“He’s been saying that, but he won’t explain what it means.” Nott squealed from behind him. 

 

“It’s a celebration of the Winter’s Solstice,” Caleb explained with his face tucked into Caduceus’ chest, “the shortest day and longest night of the year. It represents the birth and death of the Sun.” He extracted himself from Clay’s arms and approached Nott, patting her head affectionately. He was the only one she would let do that, since she knew that he wasn’t patronizing her. She had nearly bitten Fjord’s finger clean off when he had tried. “What’s all this, then?” He asked. 

 

“Thought we’d get together for the holidays.” Fjord’s accent was messy and unpracticed. He must have been quiet for some time before Caleb came in. He  always picked up steam and got better the longer he talked. “My thing canceled and Caddy was free, so why not?” Caleb’s mug was sitting on the desk next to Nott. Caduceus had collected mugs for each of them. It took him a while to gather all of them, since he didn’t want to just buy matching ones. He said that everyone had a different energy and the mug had to match. His own was an old pink one that he brought from his graveyard. It was simple, big, delicate. It almost looked small in his hands. He found Nott’s first in an antique shop in the Valley. It was a little black thing with a huge handle. It looked thick enough that it might not break upon first drop. Fjord’s was next, a soft blue, plain cup that was about twice as big as everybody else’s. It had small, painted sea shells pressed into the body. The way that Caddy told it, Caleb’s was the hardest to find. He had spent a long time trying to figure out Caleb’s energy. They had gone to a market together and while Caleb was concerned with getting enough basic foods to survive the week, Clay had wandered through the independent venders. Caleb had sent Frumpkin along to spy, settled upon his shoulders. Caleb watched as he went about his shopping and came across a stand selling used and abused oddities. There on the stand was a mug made of broken ceramic from other, dropped cups. It created a stained glass effect to it and the edges of the glass had been worn down by someone’s constant use. Caduceus had held it up to Frumpkin and asked what he thought. 

 

Caleb used it exclusively. He regarded the thing with the kind of fondness one might a family pet or childhood toy. He had expected a tea of some sort, but instead was met with the familiar taste of mulled wine. 

 

“Gilmore sent me the recipe,” Fjord said when Caleb made a face. 

 

They spent the evening in quiet conversation, no gifts except for each other’s company. 

 

It all reminded Caleb too much of home. This was how his holidays with his family were spent. Wrapped up in a blanket, something warm in his hands, a full belly, and each other’s company. His father would always tell stories, some real, some not, but all wonderful. He had always wished for his father’s gift of storytelling. His mother would hum the carols she had learned from her mother and had taught Caleb. He hummed one then, soft tune bouncing around his rib cage. Caduceus’ eyes were wide and warm and on him. Caleb’s skin crawled. 

 

He wish he deserved them. He wished he deserved this. 

 

Maybe that’s the wish that he would send to Gilmore’s blessing. Maybe he would wish for some relief, something to break through all that he had done, all the torture he put himself through. Maybe he would wish for some kind of reprieve. For a soft place to land. 

 

It was all that he could do to stay where he was, firmly planted in his own mind, in his own body, in his own self in front of the fire with wine in his belly and friends around him. It was all he could do to hold on to that moment, those words, that wine, to keep his hands wrapped around that stained glass mug. It was all he could do not to get lost again. It was, after all, the thing that he did best. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me at gayshitiguess on tumblr.


End file.
